


Deus Et Machina.

by Gearsmoke



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Bottoming from the Top, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Power Play, novelty socks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 10:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5964493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gearsmoke/pseuds/Gearsmoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skwisgaar finds one last challenge to tackle, or be tackled by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deus Et Machina.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 CAPSLOKDETHKLOK secret gift exchange.

Deus Et Machina 

 

It’s just past six p.m. on a Friday when he arrives. He loiters in the door and then moves in to drape himself over a tufted leather chair, commenting wryly about small problems with the lighting for their last show. How he’d like to have more say in choosing the Dethmerch with his likeness on it. He doesn’t want to give the game away too quickly. He’s here for a totally different reason, of course, his motives quite ulterior.

Charles smirks. While the blond man sitting across from the manager is just as charismatic as ever, he is not nearly as subtle as he thinks he is. From the moment the Swede hesitates to enter his office, the look that passes across fine Scandinavian features gave him away. He has underestimated both Charles’ intelligence and his intuition.

For Skwisgaar Skwigelf, life had always been about challenges, seeking them out, conquering them… and lately, finding a challenge that he couldn’t overcome as easily as an owl overcomes a rabbit.

Such things had become rare in the man’s life. When he was young, he daydreamed about a life without struggle, but lately he’d been longing for some childish wonder, something new to explore. There were really only two things he put any effort into for the past decade at least, and now those had lost his interest as well. Skwisgaar was the world’s most famous guitarist and sexual juggernaut. Not only had he had become so skilled with his instrument that he could practice in his sleep, but he had such unstoppable charm that he could take anyone to bed, man or woman, and bend them completely to his will.

So he practiced his guitar only to keep his fingers supple and quick, and he bedded whomever he stumbled upon as a distraction from the blandness of his years. Even bandmates couldn’t resist him, not that he’d taken that route as far as he could have… suffice it to say, there had been some daggered glares aimed his way since he’d tested his abilities on a peer.

It had even been suggested that he take up other hobbies. So Skwisgaar had tried inventing new merchandise, and even though the market for fish-flavored desserts was at it’s peak, he still failed. Falconry came and went, as did leatherworking. The threat of Toki’s participation put him off of any craft type activities, and he refused to try anything that might endanger his hands, such as rock climbing or windsurfing.

He collected things; celebrity guitar picks, diamond-studded watches by the most elite designers (until Nathan decided to smash them all,) huge perfect gemstones and one-of-a-kind fossilized baby dinosaurs (His very own dragons!) All sorts of rare and beautiful objects from both the artificial and natural worlds. But even these things just became clutter of which he grew sick and disdainful. His rooms felt crowded until he got rid of it all. Auctioned it all away for a tax write-off on the manager’s advisement.

And then, sitting alone on the thick fur cover of his bed, Skwisgaar realized that there was one thing he had never been able to conquer. One person who had never given into him, never let him have his own way, or faltered in his own will when pitted against his. It had taken a long time to occur to him that this was even an option… for so long, he’d taken his manager for granted, almost perceived him as beyond human. The band jokingly called him a ‘robot’, and Skwisgaar almost believed that. There was something MORE to Charles Offdensen, something untouchable and unattainable.

The very thing to pique the guitarist’s interest. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to win this one, he might be rejected despite his supposedly irresistible allure… how exciting!

Planning went quickly, the Swede had never been one for complexity – not to imply that he’s a simple man, but rather one who prefers his life stay easily ordered, neat and clean, the way he likes his surroundings. He would go to the manager’s office and seduce Charles, charm him, disarm him, and take him. And if Skwisgaar found himself turned down, it would merely be an opportunity to revise his tactics and try again. Surely by now, the manager knows him well enough to expect his stubbornness. A man like Skwisgaar Skwigelf gets what he wants, what he knows he deserves. Anything, anyone.

And now he sits, fingers playing along a stitched line where Murderface had previously sliced into the expensive leather covering the chair’s arm, watching the shorter, older man’s reactions as he speaks. “It ams true, dere needs to be mores better security dere, when we ams coming out from de shows, because all de ladies wants to get in wit’ us so badlies, it gets a mess wit’ bodies under de wheels of de Det’bus.”

“Believe me, I have noticed, those come with a rise in lawsuits. I’ve since revised the concert waivers to include pre- and post-show hazards. I’ve increased the guard detail twice this year and it doesn’t seem to make any difference, except for more Klokateers being trampled to death.”

“Well dey know what’s dey get in for.” The blond waves dismissively. Ten years ago, he had scarcely known death. The death of animals, the tragic accident that claimed a distant relative or acquaintance during the harsh rural Nordic winters. Death is a constant spectre in the Scandinavian climate, despite the padding of Socialist comfort those countries offer their citizens.

Still, he would have never dreamed a decade ago that he’d ever be so numb to it. That his loneliness would ever be because he could no longer percieve other human beings as people, rather than because he was actually alone. The ordinary is no longer real enough, the mortal no longer durable enough, when mere humans are so easily broken and taken away.

Charles Offdensen, however, isn’t so fragile. He’d defeated Death, survived crisis upon crisis with a level head and a grim, pragmatic focus on getting his ‘ship’ back on course. He had proven himself far less of a risk to invest time and energy in than any ordinary person, and even better, he has the strength, both physically and psychologically, to stop Skwisgaar if he chooses to. He will not be coerced.

Charles is also fully aware, as the guitarist continues to make small talk, of what Skwisgaar is up to. He’s listening, hand held to his chin as if deeply interested, but only as an afterthought to the careful analysis of the Swede’s facial and body expressions. He’s reading the intent in that lithe body, the unspoken thoughts on those full lips as if they were written there in an obscure text. The exact nature of what the musician wants hasn’t come to the fore quite yet, but his ruse is plain. The manager lets himself smile, it’s a carefully-crafted arc that feigns innocence while being subtly inviting. He wants more information, and is willing to play the flirt to find out exactly what’s being asked for.

“So den… you underskands my posiston. Ams bad for biskness, like you saids, and also it amn’t very goods for mine comforts level. Ja, does you underskands? Comforts?” Skwisgaar quirks a brow, “I never seen you takes none, you knows.”

“I like comfort, I have my chairs custom-made, fine brandy and cigars, fine music.”

“I don’t means… well, you works all de times. Even when you amn’t got paper and pens all over, you’s taking cares of de band. You amn’t got any times for taking, you know, you’s got fans… groupies. Or de more serious relationskips, you knows what I mean.”

“I do, and you’re quite right. My life is full with the demands of Dethklok, I don’t really feel the need to bring anyone else into it.” The manager resists a smirk, he’s toying with Skwisgaar, feeding him just the right tidbits to get the reactions he wants.

“Dat’s… a shames. You never feels de need for… ah, ladies… attentskion? A littles bit tenskon release?” There it is, exactly on schedule, the nosy bastard.

“I do, I generally manage my own needs sufficiently.” Charles gives the Swede a look, conveying his meaning with utter clarity. As well as a challenge to say something about it.

Skwisgaar huffs, not taking the bait so easily, “I coulds never stands dat. Beingks alones… all de times… in mine bed. Maybe I sends you up a ladies just for one nights? Someones what ams your age, nice lady who ams not somes crazy fan girls wit’ skanky diseasoids?”

The manager hums softly, he knows his band better than to accept random acts of ‘kindness’ like these at face value. Not to mention that the man has a poor grasp of what Charles’ age is, or what constitutes a suitable match. And although he has nothing against Skwisgaar’s powdery granny brigade, they really aren’t the sort of thing that would help him in any way. Certainly not to relax – unless they plan to make him tea and bake him a pie. Actually… His smile widens, amused. “It’s perfectly alright, Skwisgaar, I don’t need help taking care of myself. And I still have quite a lot to do before I can even think about taking any time off.”

“Well… what if I tells you you’s has to take tonights off, from right nows, as a directs order from you’s employsitar?”

“I’d have to obey, though I’d be doing so under duress, and would not enjoy it.” A precision move, he offers Skwisgaar an easy in, letting the blond think he’s manipulating the conversation.

“Oh, I t’inks you’d enjoy it, I can be whole lots fun, I’s gonna show you’s a good time...” The guitarist eyes the look on Charles’ face, “I bets you would… you likes to bet wit’me?”

Again, the façade of gentility, “That wouldn’t be proper and you know it.” He gives the impression of wavering, though he still leads this dance, “Besides which, you would lose that bet. And I’d feel bad making you pay your end of it.”

Skwisgaar frowns, mildly insulted, “You undereskimines me. You’s just afraids of dat I would wins. Well, I orders you as you’s boss, you’s going to take de rest of de night off, and spends dat time wit’ me.”

“If I must, I must.” A long-suffering sigh, “Must I also accept the bet?”

“Ja, you doos.”

Easy enough, “What are the terms?” Charles steeples his fingers, “I won’t do anything illegal or dangerous to either my personal health or Dethklok’s reputation.”

Skwisgaar narrows his eyes, “Noes, nottings bad. If I wins, you takes de next weekends and has a good times.” As if he’d do anything to endanger the only people he considers anything close to his equals. “And den if you wins?”

“If I win, this subject of conversation is not to come up again. It is to be buried in your brain and left there.” Knowing full well it’d be unlikely to stay off the table for any more than a month, winning would at least give him a few weeks of respite from the guitarist’s probing. It’s almost ironic, Charles thinks, the quietest member of Dethklok happens to be the most insatiably curious about the private lives of others. It would be ironic, if it weren’t so strangely appropriate. “Do we have a deal?”

Skwisgaar makes a sound of assent, then says it aloud, “Yes. It is a bets… So you stop workings now?” He looks pointedly at the pen still in Charles’ hand.

The manager drops the implement, standing up and taking his glasses off. “As of this moment, I am off duty as your manager. What activities do you have planned for this evening?” He folds his spectacles and slips them into the front pocket of his jacket. Even when he is ‘free’, he remains rigidly focused and grim-jawed.

The guitarist sighs, “You’s gonna be like dat huh?”

Of course he is, “Excuse me? I’m not being ‘like’ anything. I am doing as you’ve insisted. I just want to know what we’ll be doing.” The manager smirks inwardly, then looks up as Skwisgaar stands to his full height, moving around the desk to put a hand on his shoulder. He’s not used to being touched like that… or at all… and fights himself not to twitch away from it.

“Comes wit’ me. I t’inks you need to learns now how to be relaxed.” The grip on Charles’ shoulder is firm and commanding, without being rough. Skwisgaar’s fingers are like iron, his tendons cable-strong from decades of tireless work. He pulls the other man to his feet, not needing to use force, as the manager acquiesces without a fuss. “Opens you’s door.” The Swede tilts his jaw toward Charles’ personal quarters.

The dark-haired man pushed back slightly against the blond’s grasp. “Why do you want to go in there?” His tone is ambiguous, he’s sure he knows why, but he wants to hear what Skwisgaar has to say. Instead he just gets a smile and a gentle push. The Swede is catching on to the game. None too soon, Charles thinks, the man is not that dumb. He opens the door to his private quarters; one of the few parts of Mordhaus not decorated in keeping with the Dethklok aesthetic.

Long slender fingers caress the back of a reading chair as the musician steps into a roomy antechamber. He takes a moment to appreciate the décor. The style is both lush and austere, mixing clean, minimalist forms with rich hues and patterns. Classically Victorian brocades and velvets set against soft gray and white damask wallpaper. Skwisgaar had been in Offdensen’s personal rooms before, but only briefly and always accompanied by other members of the band, so he hadn’t the luxury of lingering on carefully chosen fabrics and furnishings until now. Though far busier than his own starkly white quarters, this is tasteful and inoffensive to the Swede’s eye. He approves of the other man’s taste with a curt nod.

They continue into Charles’ bedroom, done in similar style, the modest bed covered with hand-stitched coverlet and an orderly detail of satin pillows. A mere Queen mattress, tiny compared to the custom sleep sets built for the band. No wonder the manager didn’t share it, Skwisgaar chuckled, there’d hardly be any room!

“I assume my decorating isn’t brutal enough for you?” Teasing but not joking, Charles glances up at the taller man. Without his glasses, the Swede appears younger, the fine lines and marks of age are smoothed away. In reality, Charles is one of the very few people who actually knows Skwisgaar’s age.

“It ams fines, I likes it. Not too much Nackpacks.” He gestures expansively, indicating the open quality of the room, the lack of clutter.

“Thank you. I’m glad you like it. Was there something you wanted in here? Or were you just curious about my furniture?” Again, he tests the guitarist, seeing if he’ll pick up on the subtle sarcasm.

After a momentary pause to read the title on one of Charles’ trophies, Skwisgaar turns to face the other man, “Ja, I wants to helps for you to relax. Dat’s ams what I am doings. So you gots to takes all off you’s clot’es.” He gestures to the bed, “Unds den gets on dere.”

Taken slightly aback, Charles has to fight not to laugh. He coughs lightly, eyebrows raised, “That’s it? Not even wine first? I’m surprised, Skwisgaar. That’s forward even by your standards.” He folds his arms, still suppressing a grin, “I certainly haven’t agreed to any activities with you that take place in my bed.”

Stepping forward, Skwisgaar smiles engagingly, “No no, nots dat, what do you t’ink? I just wants to gives to you a backs-message, a real goods one, not like det guy wit de dead fish hands. Pff, most lousy samosa ever.”

The manager blinks, then parts his lips in epiphany. “Ah, do you mean ‘masseuse’?”

“Ja, dats one. So only takes off de shirts and jacksit and lies dere den. And I promisks I will keeps mine hands away from over you’s butt areas, okay?”

Charles raises his hands defensively, “You don’t need to do that. Leo is perfectly capable if I need a massage. And I’m sure you do give them very well, but, ah…” Fuck, he doesn’t have a good argument at the ready for this. Manipulation he could have dealt with, threats, demands, or crass suggestions… but gentleness? He should have suspected, it’s always been part of Skwisgaar’s arsenal. It had simply never been applied to him before.

Skwisgaar senses the moment of weakness and moves to seize it, already tugging at the shoulders of the manager’s jacket, “Well I can tells you ams needinks it. And we does got a bet, so I gots to be de one to does dis. I ams can makes you feel less like de work-machine, ah?”

Pulling away and sitting at the foot of his bed, Charles nests his hands on his lap and fixes the guitarist with a stern look, “This is part of the bet, right? We do have a bet. It would be in my best interest, if I want to win the bet, simply to refuse to let you do anything pleasant to me.”

With a truly arrogant chortle, the Swede leans back against the wall opposite, “Reallies? You wouldn’ts be winning notting if you says no. Even dis bet, you’s already on de losing side if you wins… and you knows… you gonna be up at nights, how long? Lays dere in de bed t’inking abouts… why you don’ts takes dis uppertunacy.”

Not to mention the wisdom to know how things are likely to go if he turns Skwisgaar down. A man so used to getting what he wants doesn’t give up the chase easily. “Hah, well, you’ve got a point. I think I can handle a little back massage without risking my dignity.” In an elegant move he has his tie and jacket off, though he hasn’t the abandon to simply toss them down, rather he lays them both neatly over the footboard of the bed. He can’t help but notice how the blond watches him – surreptitious glances, trying not to be caught looking – as Charles unbuttons his shirt. The poor man, he’s like a wolf who’s been fed by man for so long he’s forgotten how to hunt for himself. Skwisgaar’s ‘prey’ hasn’t run from him in years, and he’s grown so cocky in the illusion of talents he hasn’t actually got.

Skwisgaar clears his throat. Maybe Charles isn’t stretching like that on purpose, sliding himself with such suppleness onto his stomach. The manager wouldn’t play with him like that, would he? “Does you got any ah, lot-tion or oils you likes dat I use?”

“No… I suppose I have some unscented moisturizer if you want it. In the bathroom, in the cabinet.” Kicking off his shoes, Charles watches how Skwisgaar moves, walking away, the subtle sway to his hips. It’s always fascinating how much people betray without even knowing it. Even THIS person, famous for being attentive and intuitive with his lovers, lets his feelings show just like all the others. The difference is that Skwisgaar doesn’t think about what he’s doing at an intellectual level. He’s aware of the messages, but not the language, whereas Charles analyzes everything, every motion, every inflection, in obsessive detail.

Once in the bathroom, the guitarist shuts the door. He needs a moment to look at himself, reaffirm his ego, his desire. ‘Look at me,’ he thinks to his reflection, ‘I am still attractive. I am still a God. Men bow before me, women swoon when I pass by. This is no different… except that he will not bow so easily. This will be fun. Enjoy it.’ Skwisgaar runs his fingers through his hair, uses the toilet and washes his hands, finds the moisturizer and returns to the bedroom. His ego is a fortress, his walls impermeable.

The manager is stretched out on his stomach, arms folded. His hair slightly tousled with locks hanging over his forehead, softening his usually severe appearance. Glancing along the brunet’s body, Skwisgaar is surprised to see a pair of colourful novelty socks: blue diamond check with various embroidered teapots, cups and saucers. The guitarist would have never expected them, such frivolity kept hidden by his neatly tailored slacks and immaculate wingtips.

When the tall blond sits down, making the bed creak, Charles puts his head down trustingly, choosing to enjoy this for what it’s worth and worry about what may happen next when it happens. He can feel warmth and strength in Skwisgaar’s hands when they’re laid upon him, a more confident touch than ‘clammy-hands’ Leo (who really hadn’t been hired on as a masseuse, but took over the job when their previous physical therapist was killed by a panicked rhinoceros. The exact details of that event are still under investigation.) It doesn’t take long for the manager to admit to himself that this may well be worth it.

When the older man turns his head, resting it on his folded arms, Skwisgaar notices a scar running up behind Charles' ear. Plastic surgery, perhaps? That would explain how someone nearly a decade the Swede’s elder didn’t look even close to that. Or really much older than he had when he was Skwisgaar’s age, and they were signing the biggest recording contract deal in music history. Thinking back, he recalls seeing Charles with a few ladies that night, buying drinks in celebration. And he knows the guy has admirers, plenty of the ladies loitering around the skank stables had asked about the mighty Offdensen, the reclusive ‘brains behind the band’. That much power is a strong aphrodisiac even if the person holding it doesn’t put himself out there as available. “So how longs ams it been?”

“Hm? I suppose since Leo was hired. I lied, he’s not very good.” Nothing like purposefully misinterpreting a question. Charles inhales as the guitarist’s powerful fingers dig in along a shoulderblade.

“You knows I don’t mean det. You even got laids dis year?”

“That’s personal.”

“Dat ams a no.” Skwisgaar grins, putting both hands on Charles’ lower back and swiftly straddling the manager’s rump, eliciting a surprised breathy sound. The guitarist considers that a point scored in his favor, it’s hard to catch the manager off guard like that.

“It’s not a no… It’s a personal question which I don’t think is any of your business.” On the other hand, it’s certainly not a ‘yes’ either, and he can feel his face flush with a mix of frustration and embarrassment. He hates being called out for anything, even something so – as he sees it – insignificant.

Skwisgaar tsks, then sighs dramatically, “Det is a real tragetty, you knows. Even somesone what hardly ever gots any ladies ever, like Moiderface… he gets some. He knows it ams imporskant to have pleasure in you’s life.” He can feel the older man’s back tense in defensive reflex.

Charles grunts, “Not everyone needs sex to enjoy life, Skwisgaar.”

“Ams you sayings det you’s ams one of dems people?” The guitarist gives the older man a moment to answer that, but when no response comes, he merely chuckles and starts kneading at the base of Charles’ neck, gratified when the tension starts to ebb away again. He’ll have this one won yet.

After thinking it over, and letting the other man attack a rough patch between his trapezius muscles, the manager says quietly, “I’ve had to become that sort of person, Skwisgaar. It was a choice I made, for the benefit of the band, and I don’t regret it.”

“Huh.” Another long pause follows that acknowledgement. Skwisgaar knows that’s not a choice at all, it’s a sacrifice, and one that can’t really be reconciled by a living, breathing human body. “Maybe de guys ams right, den. Ams you a robot? Maybe… gots metal parts under dese mus-kulls?” He spreads his palms over the other man’s lower back,

The very idea earns a chuckle, “No, I’m not a robot. I, ah, I just have very specific priorities. I’m sure you understand that by now, given your dedication to your instrument.”

“I am dedskated to my odder instruments, too.” He can feel a warm stiffness just above the manager’s hips, muscular inflammation that must hurt, though he’d never seen Charles show it.

“That hadn’t escaped my noti-OH!” At that moment, the guitarist grips the older man’s hips and pushes down in just such a way as to make the fluid trapped between his vertebral joints express with an audible crack. Bliss floods in moments after, a mix of endorphins and relief from pressure. “Oh, yes. That’s good.”

The smug satisfaction drips from Skwisgaar’s tongue, “Only good?” He slides his hands back up along Charles’ ribs, and in doing so presses his groin lightly against the other man’s rear end. Oh but it’s just innocent shifting of position, he’s not doing it on purpose.

“Very good.” It comes out a little raspier than he’d intended, and coupled with the unexpected lumpy greeting to his backside, a rosy heat creeps up the manager’s neck. “That is very good… you were right, I am finding this pleasant.” This is the point where he must decide how far he’s going to let the musician go. What he wants, what he’d like to happen, mustn’t play any part in his decision. It’s not about desires or wishes or what could be, but his responsibility to the band, to the company – the Empire - he’s built around the band. And the promises made to himself that he wouldn’t take advantage of his position, and more than anything else, he wouldn’t threaten what he’d helped to create.

Skwisgaar, as tempting as he could be, is a threat to all of those things. “So I suppose you’ve won.”

“Ja, I’s guessings so, ah?”

Charles doesn’t say anything for a brief while, and the Swede continues to massage him. He doesn’t really want to make the guitarist stop, now that he’s actually able to let himself enjoy it. He procrastinates while he can, “You’re better at this than I expected…”

An acknowledging hum, “Lots of practice, lots of de GMILFs needs help looskening up befores I can-“

Interrupting somewhat desperately, “Oh really! Yes that would be very good practice!” Oh lord, spare him the details of Skwisgaar’s Christmas cakes. He buries his head in his arms, is that what’s being done to him? Is he being ‘loosened up’? Charles is both flattered and vaguely offended by that thought… And in a moment, he’s changed his mind. With narrowed eyes, he exhales and moans softly, muffled against the bed, but certain the musician won’t miss it.

Whether he caught it or not, the musician doesn’t remark on the little sound. He does, however, work his way back down to the shorter man’s hips, “You’s carrying a lots of hardness dere, from all de time you’s at de office chairs. I can helps wit’ dat too, but you gots to takes off you’s belt.”

Oh really? “Ah. Go ahead and take it off.” He’s not left waiting before the suggestion is taken, and he arches to let Skwisgaar access the buckle. Following the removal of the belt, he notices his slacks are a lot looser, “Did you… unbutton my trousers?”

An affirmative “Mm-hm.” And the guitarist’s hands dip below the border of Charles’ waistband, pressing into the sides of his tailbone, thumbs circling outward to knead into sore and stiff muscles that haven’t been properly used in some weeks. The manager moans again, louder, this time actually slipping in his self-control. There are no other questions or protests, so long as those talented hands are at work.

Long fingers play along the other man’s muscles and tendons, caressing the outlines of bones under soft skin, noticing more scars, some older than others. Not like Toki’s brutal cross-hatching of old abuse, but rather the layered map of a long and interesting life.

Aging fascinates the blond, particularly as he’s beginning to do so himself. The subtle lines so endearing on his lovely fading roses are frightening when he finds them on his own face.

Skwisgaar Skwigelf has not yet decided if he will become an old man.

Charles’ artifice might stave off the wrinkles and grey hair for a few more years, but his physical decline is inevitable, as it is for them all, no matter how God-like they might be. In a moment of softness, the Swede caresses one of his manager’s scars. These ones are fresher, only a year old, they’re still pink and healing. No matter how tough he is, mortality is rampant among human beings.

And like any human being, Charles is not immune to the effect of having his ass, and now his thighs, expertly massaged by a seductive master. He’s not surprised by how sensual – erotic, even, the treatment is, but how deeply he’s letting himself get caught up in it. He still has most of his mental faculties intact, and even though he can only groan a wordless assent when he’s asked if he wants his feet done next, he’s got a plan, he’s sure he’s got the situation under control, he always does.

For the moment, the manager lets himself relax under the guitarist, allowing Skwisgaar to think he’s surrendering, weakening. He bites his lip as warm palms retrace their course up his spine, curling his fingers into the sheets with a stifled whimper, and then he feels another bump from behind. Charles can tell the guitarist is aroused, he knows when someone is rubbing a boner against his ass. Ah, Skwisgaar, already getting ahead of himself.

That’s a shame, the manager thinks, he would have liked that foot rub.

The musician smiles, yes, he’s still got it. Nobody can resist him, he’s learned how to manipulate human emotions and subconscious responses as easily as he plucks a guitar string, he knows every note by heart, and he’s just about got the manager ready for the next step, the crescendo in his song of seduction.

It’s just when the blond is leaning in to make his move that Charles interrupts him, “Thank you, Skwisgaar… you can stop now.”

“Ah… what?” The tall guitarist falters, that’s not what’s supposed to happen! Thrown off his groove, he sputters nonsensically, “I… ffah, uhr, ja ha… Stops?”

“Yes, I think you’ve proven your point, you’ve won.” He suppresses his amusement at Skwisgaar’s shocked stalling.

With his brain under his erection’s sway, the Swede blurts out, “But… you’s was enjoysing dis, why do you wants me to stops now?” Everything was going according to plan! … Just, not HIS plan.

With a wry touch to his tone, “Because I say so.” Charles pushes himself up and turns over onto his back, with the taller man still straddling him. Skwisgaar’s weight is no impediment, and , hands clasped behind his head, he smirks up at the guitarist with tousled hair and pinkened cheeks. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“No… buts…” Pausing, noticing the heat where his body rests against the other’s, Skwisgaar glances down, now aware of Charles’ cock nudging his through three layers of fabric. “You’s got hard.”

“So did you.” Cool as ever, the manager keeps his eyes locked with the guitarist's as he reaches down and grabs onto the blond’s crotch. “I didn’t think there was much point continuing the massage, since I already know what you want.”

Well THAT is more like it, “Oh ja? Ahaheh, I underskands now, you’s caught me… so what does you t’ink you knows about what I’s wantsing?”

“You had the audacity to come in here thinking you could conquer me, didn’t you? Claim me, add me to your collection. No doubt I’d be your master work. Oh yes, the moment I saw you come in I could tell what you were up to, you vain, foolish little boy…” Another gentle squeeze, eyes narrowing as the blond astride him shivers.

“Ooh, ands… you didn’ts stops me, so what is dats ams means?” Skwisgaar’s tongue darts out to gloss over full lips gone dry, swallowing with anxious anticipation. He’s so close, but not yet safe in his victory.

In an instant, Charles is moving. He swiftly braces his heel and pushes himself up, twisting his body to roll the taller man onto his back. Before the guitarist’s surprised yell stops echoing off the walls, Charles is on him, with one hand clenched firmly in his long golden hair, and the other locked around the guitarist’s fine wrists. “It means you’re getting what you wanted.” The grin he wears is vicious and strange, something rarely seen on the manager’s stoic face.

It occurs to Skwisgaar, in an equally rare occurrence, that he might be in over his head. It’s pointless to struggle, he’s held firmly, and Charles’ grip is strong enough to hurt his precious hands if he tries. He’s actually surprised by that power, so unlike what he’d expect from the demure pencil-pusher the manager pretends to be. Of course, Skwisgaar knows better, but it’s still a shock to be reminded.

 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/gearsmoke/pic/000t0q81)  


 

“You want me.” Charles continues, “You want to fuck me.” Offdensen waits until his captive gives him an affirmative nod. “Why? What brought you here? Were you bored? Lonely? Looking for a thrill?” Again, a nod, the Swede’s mouth pressed into a grim line.

“I could have told you from the start what would happen. Look at me, Skwisgaar, look at where I am. I didn’t get here by letting people fuck me. No, no no, sweetheart, no.”

The guitarist’s eyes widen, that there is super creepy. And not what he was hoping for at all. And the position he’s in becomes extremely relevant, pinned under the shorter man, who has him held almost effortlessly. Charles Offdensen does the fucking around here… and he’s not always nice about it. “Waits! Ah… What… I don’t t’inks I wants to do it dis way.”

“Are you trying to back out now? Why? Just because there’s a, ah, slight change in your plans? Be more flexible, Skwisgaar. You’re supposed to be a sexual god, could you really live with yourself if you ran from me?” Knowing what the answer will be without needing to hear it, Charles releases one fair wrist to slip his hand down along the inside of Skwisgaar’s thigh. He’s still hard, which is no surprise, and when he rubs the bulge under the guitarist’s jeans, he earns a soft, whimpering moan. “I thought not.”

“You’s a horrible persons, Charles.” Skwisgaar pouts, hating himself for letting the situation so easily turn on him. He hasn’t been in this position since he was a kid, put on the spot and frightened like this.

Offdensen’s hand is soft when it cups the blond’s chin, “Oh don’t even try to play coy. I already know you’re no blushing virgin to being rodgered rumpwise.” A sly smirk at his own clever alliteration, “You may be discreet enough to keep such things out of the public sphere, but not from me. Do I even need to prep you first?”

Swallowing, oh merciful Odin, get me out of this! Clearing his throat, Skwisgaar admits, “I likes… uh, I would appreskiate a littles floorplay forst.” Though he has to wonder, anxiously, what Charles’ idea of foreplay might BE. It’s almost a relief when he feels his belt buckle being undone. The other man pulls the belt free with a subtle purring sound, then unzips his jeans and starts working them down over the musician’s slim hips. Knowing being helpful is likely to work in his favor, the Swede kicks them the rest of the way off.

“Very good. Now, don’t move.” Charles has the belt in his hand, and he uses it to bind the blond’s wrists over his head, looping it with the studs turned inward to discourage struggle. “That’s a good boy.” With his hands freed, the brunet can slide Skwisgaar’s shirt up, exposing a lean, lightly muscular torso with only enough flesh to keep the bones from jutting out. Leaning down, he traces his tongue around a pink nipple to see how sensitive it is.

The sensation isn’t exactly pleasant under the circumstances, but the guitarist makes a whimpering sound and the flesh hardens predictably, involuntarily, betraying him. Skwisgaar flushes, he doesn’t want to enjoy this, he doesn’t want to lose a contest of will with anyone, even someone who he knows is almost guaranteed to win. Biting his lip, he stifles himself, willing his boner to deflate and give him an excuse to be set free.

This, however, is not to be. Damn that part of him which has been aching for a thrill like this! To be bested? Tamed? Taken? HIM!? It’s so exciting, his heart is beating hard and fast, and his skin heats, he’s only getting more turned on by his own chagrin and resistance. The way Charles has him so completely in hand, in more than one sense of the term, making him almost helpless, almost… guiltless, for once. He shudders at a sudden bite, mouth opening in a startled cry.

“Kinky, huh? Well, I’m not surprised. Ah, I’ll tell you what… You won the bet, so I’ll keep up my end of the deal. But if I make you enjoy this, if I make you beg, that time will be spent on my terms. You’ll have lots of fun, oh yes. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

“Nej…” And then a gasp as pristinely manicured fingernails dig into his bare thigh, “N-nej! No bets!”

“No no, I’m not proposing another wager. This,.. this is a deal I’m making with you, whether you agree or not.” Charles licks and then bites the other nipple, getting it as hard and pink as the other. He shifts slightly and pulls his own cock free before he does more damage to the imported, monogrammed silk boxers he’s wearing. He loves their slippery soft texture under his balls when he has to sit for ten hours a day. Luxurious, sexy, like his expensive brandy and cigars. And the guitarist thinks he denies himself comfort?

“Lie still.” A command, hoping that he has Skwisgaar hot and bothered enough to be able to release him without the blond making a break for it, Charles slips off of the taller man and stands. His faith is premature, though, as the guitarist struggles to sit up, only to be pushed down with a light shove. Repeating the effort results in the same end result, being pushed down again with the ease of a lioness batting her cub into submission.

Pride still has control, and the guitarist tries again to sit up, then to roll to the side, kicking out and growling, only to be put back in place each time. After several attempts, all Skwisgaar has achieved is to wear himself out. Panting and hot, he gives up this tactic, it’s futile and tiring.

“If you really want me to let you go, just ask.” Charles waits, smiling. Of course he knows no such plea will come. Skwisgaar is as much into the game as he is, and he wouldn’t lower himself to beg for his freedom. Still, he can’t be trusted, so Charles has to stretch the blond’s long arms over his head again and make sure he stays.

There’s a click, and Skwisgaar finds he can no longer move his arms freely. Twisting himself to look up, he sees that there’s now a slim steel chain attached to the belt around his wrists. This is connected to the bed’s headboard. “You’s chains me!”

“You need to learn to obey orders.” Smiling again when the Swede makes another derisive noise, but says nothing. “Now keep your feet in check or I’ll have to restrain them as well.” He puts his hand on one of his captive’s thighs and lets his palm glide down to the ankle. The fine hairs are silky and almost invisible, these are legs many women would envy.

After a terse moment, Skwisgaar sighs and nods, “I amn’t kicks.” He lids his eyes and averts his gaze, the wall of his ego starting to crack. He’s up against a very worthy opponent, and finding himself wanting.

“Very good. I trust you’re clean?” A pause, “I mean, that you’ve bathed before coming here, I know you’re clean of STDs, of course. Miracle that that is.”

A grumpy ‘Pfft’, but Skwisgaar just lets his head roll to the sides, his legs falling laxly open with his hard organ on display. “Ja, I washes everyt’ings. Ams you doesing dis t’ing or not?”

With a quick flex of his fingers around that long Swedish cock, the manager gets the guitarist’s attention. “Don’t get impatient. There’s lots of time ahead of us.” He strokes Skwisgaar’s length until he’s got the blond writhing and groaning, and then he’s abruptly gone, having stepped away from the bed.  
  
Picking up the Swede’s jeans and searching the pockets, it takes seconds to find a small tube of lubrication and several condoms. “I knew you were a slut… three different sizes?” He smirks, holding up a medium. “At least they’re the good brand. Heaven help you if I found out you were a cheap slut.”

Skwisgaar growls, “I amn’t cheap!” He starts tugging on the chain until Charles cuffs him in reproach, then climbing over the musician, the brunet lifts his long, pale legs and kneels between them. He can see the other man’s erection as it’s sheathed in latex. “I amn’t a sluts, eidder! I don’ts say you can fucks me!”

“You also didn’t say I couldn’t. Ah, here, this will help.” He balls up his tie and pokes it into the blond’s mouth when he opens it to say something else. Skwisgaar tries to spit it out, but it resists being ejected, a quality of the fabric. Wanting to get the tongue-drying thing out of his mouth does momentarily distract him from what Charles is doing long enough for the latter to lube up his fingers and find a place to put them.

“YURRH!” Followed by some muffled Swedish expletives. It’s not that it hurts, on the contrary, the fingers probing him are quite gentle, and their owner knows what he’s doing. His complaints are pure indignation at not being given any warning. But he’s behaving, not struggling or kicking, which the manager accepts as tacit permission to continue.

Which it is, but only just. And only because it’s obvious the older man is good with his hands. He closes his eyes, gnawing the length of silk in his mouth. Again he feels a firm grip encircle his cock, stroking and squeezing while those slick fingers work up inside of him. Soon his jaw slackens, the tension fades, and he’s moaning and purring in lewd abandon with one shin tossed over the other man’s shoulder. Distantly Skwisgaar is aware of how he’s acting, how thoroughly he’s being conquered. He’s in awe, surely there’s no way Charles is a better lover than he is! But somehow the mousy brunet seems to know exactly where and how and when to touch, and when to deny him, when to hurt him, to make him writhe and whine with need.

A pleased hum, and Charles withdraws his fingers, wiping them on the other man’s tank top, which earns him a sneer. “Oh don’t be that way. You were right that it’s been a while for me, though, not as long as you probably think. I’m just quite a bit more secretive.” He leans close, looking the blond in the eyes, “I must say though, this is a particularly pleasant way to, ah, break my fast, so to speak.”

“Nnghfft.” Which could be anything, but has a certain impatient tone to it. The look in the guitarist’s eyes is hard to misinterpret.

Finding the right spot and pushing gently, Charles coaxes Skwisgaar to let him in. He doesn’t thrust, merely pressing steadily until the other man relaxes and opens to him with a soft sigh. He slides in gently, without much resistance, and moans when he’s taken in to the hilt. Slick, warm, tighter than he’d expected, but not too tight. He won’t be hurting this one, no need to hold back.

Skwisgaar thrashes, gagging and huffing, wanting desperately to get the tie out of his mouth. It stifles him, threatens to choke him when he cries out, which he can’t help but do when he’s entered. The blond squirms and whines, looking up with sad, repentant eyes. But he just has to deal with it. It’s not so bad now, the silk is nearly saturated with his saliva, easier to manage. Soon he’ll be able to get rid of it, if he can just focus long enough. Charles’ cock is pumping into him faster and deeper, firm thighs slapping against his upturned ass. He’s been here before, been fucked by men and women (some who came packing the right equipment naturally,) and he’s learned to enjoy it to its fullest. But in all other cases, there was a sense of reverence, they knew they were boinking a god, and that they were being honoured by the privilege.

Not so with Charles. There’s respect there, sure, but this is the gaze of an equal looking him in the eye. Skwisgaar has a hard time holding the contact, but every time he re-opens his eyes, it’s still there. The manager is watching him, analyzing him even as he’s ramming his dick up the guy’s exhaust pipe.

Charles reflects, as he rolls his hips in a sinuous motion, how odd this is. It’s not a scenario he’d put a lot of thought into, but he’d be lying if he didn’t suspect this day would come. That he hadn’t idly thought about how he’d handle it when it did. This wasn’t exactly what he’d envisioned.

With his fingertips pressing red circles into creamy thighs, driving into a gasping, moaning blonde who is known the world over for being an unstoppable sex machine, an inexhaustible force of primal lust… now arching wantonly beneath him… Charles realizes, this is SO much better.

If he had to, Skwisgaar would admit this was turning out better than he’d expected, too, even with his plans being turned around on him. This is so much more interesting than if he’d simply won like he usually did. Getting laid like this isn’t a bad part of the deal either, even if he’d put up a brave face of denying it. The part that stings his ego so much is the knowledge that Charles has had his number from the beginning. The robot is GOOD, he thinks, with a relentless, piston-like rhythm that’s working SO right. The way Charles hilts with each thrust, pacing his breathing to match his motions, such tight control, perfect timing… and “Wunnh!” That’s the spot.

Noticing, finally, that the blond has half spat-out the tie, Charles pulls it the rest of the way out. It’s soaked and slimy with spit, and he throws it on the floor. “Louder, princess. Rattle the walls.” Of course they’re soundproofed, and one of the few places in the Haus without cameras. No need to let anyone find out what he does in his few hours of spare time. He bites an already-reddened and sore nipple, harder this time, coinciding with a particularly rough jerk of his hips that makes the guitarist yowl.

“That’s good. Nice and loud.” Charles pants, loving the smooth squeeze of muscle around his cock. He’s been neglecting Skwisgaar, and gives him some relief by jacking him off, playing with the Swede’s foreskin and frenum, tugging on his balls and stroking the shaft, eliciting more noise and a sticky drop of precum that oozes and drips down his knuckles.

The blond arches and gasps, bucking his hips in mindless lust, he’s getting close, sweat forming and running down from his temples and the backs of his knees. He hooks his leg around the other man’s hips and tries to urge him to work harder, “Nyuhgh, Fucks! Goes faster!” He’s growing needy and demanding, just a little more…

And then it stops. Charles’ hips and hands both come to a standstill. He’s still buried deep in the taller man, with those long legs braced around him, but he’s not moving. It took a massive act of will on his own part to stop, he’s flushed and sweating, heart pounding… but there’s something he wants more than an ending.

“Whats… nnh, javlar vad!?” Skwisgaar writhes and groans, his erection pulsing hard in Charles’ hand. He tries to hump up into that grip, but he’s held down and denied, “Why’s you stopping!?”

“Because it’s time.” Raising an eyebrow, Offdensen watches the Swede’s face as it goes through various contortions. Among the expressions are fear and realization.

“Noes… Charles! Don’ts leave me like dis… I needs more!” He’s still demanding, though, not asking.

Charles licks his lips, “You know what I want. When you give it to me, then you’ll get what you want.”

“Fan ta dig, ditt jävla svin!” Though he’s sure the manager has at least some idea of what he’s saying, he doesn’t expect the sharp slap to the side of his rump, “Ow!” He pouts despite having enjoyed that.

“Well that’s what you get for being rude. Now either you do what I want, or you can go jerk off in your room.” Charles’ eyes are icy and sharp, hiding a dark mirth at the power trip he’s pulling. This will be delicious.

“Noes! Fucks me an’ den I’s go.” He’s hoping to be swatted again, at least being slapped is some sort of stimulation, would give him a moment of relief…

But no, Charles just looks at him, “I suggest you choose quickly, I’m going to lose my erection…”

The guitarist fidgets, then growls uncooperatively, “I wants you to finish fucksing me.”

“Then ask for it.”

After making a strangled, desperate sound, the cracking of Skwisgaar’s will is almost audible, “Fines! please fucks me! Now!”

“What’s that?”

Face red, eyes screwed shut, Skwisgaar tries again, “Please… fucks me, Charles.”

As a reward, Charles gives the blond’s dick a gentle stroke, “That’s better, you’re getting there, keep going.”

When he opens his eyes Skwisgaar finds the other man’s hazel stare awaiting him yet again, he feels pinned there, with his cock ready to explode and his ego in tatters. He swallows dryly, the tone that comes out of him is far less belligerent than he intends, and he knows he’s lost yet another battle. The wall crumbles around him. “Please, I… begs you to finish wit’ me, fucks me and lets me come. Tells me what you wants me to say!”

The older man revels in watching the haughty musician reduced to begging, to groveling under him. This is the by far hottest and most satisfying moment Charles has had in ages, “That’ll do quite nicely.” His dick is as hard as it’s ever been, and he wastes no time in using it, plowing the blond with a possessive fury, making the lanky slut coo and mewl helplessly. With his captive so yielding and wanting, he’s not going to last too long, but that’s alright, he’s already gotten what he needed from this adventure.

Twisting against the chain holding him, Skwisgaar pushes his back up off the bed, his heels pressing into the older man’s back, spurring him on toward the breaking point. He can feel Charles reach his climax first, the way that perfect rhythm starts to slip and shudder, and then dissolves completely.

Grinding deep, head tossed back with wisps of dark hair plastered to his face, Charles pants and huffs through his orgasm. He can feel the heat of his semen sliding up around his glans in the tight confines of the condom. He hasn’t let Skwisgaar have his release yet, and he snaps his hips a few more times before his erection fails, working the Swede’s long cock in his fist until he’s rewarded by a throaty wail and the feeling of muscles clamping down around him.

Body tense, Skwisgaar yells wordlessly, eyes rolled back and perfect skin flushed pink and sweaty. He shudders as he’s milked, Charles’ grip squeezing just right until his chest is lashed copiously with his own fluids. A final blinding spasm and his body goes boneless and tingling. He’s literally seeing stars, tiny sparkling dots at the corners of his vision. It’s been a long time since he’s come that hard, or felt this good.

When Charles pulls out, there’s a momentary ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the rushing endorphins. The heat of the other man’s body lingers near his skin for a moment, and then the bed shifts and he can hear Charles walking away. Nothing is said, no post-coital small talk, which is as they both know it should be.

Skwisgaar opens his eyes. He’s alone, but he can hear water running in the bathroom. That makes sense, Offdensen is even worse than he is about cleanliness. He slowly gains awareness that his wrists hurt, the belt is tight and chafing, “Charles?”

“I’ll just be a moment.” A minute passes, and the manager returns, in the process of getting dressed again, clean slacks, a new shirt with a fresh tie, and a wet washcloth in his hand. He cleans Skwisgaar in a tender, almost affectionate manner, from head to toe, and then unties him. “Next weekend, then?”

That’s right… He’d won their bet. Even if he’d lost their game. And the imposed ‘deal’, wherein Charles chooses how they’ll spend their upcoming time together. “Oh… ja. What’s we does den?”

“Don’t worry about that now, just get dressed. I need to change the sheets.” He finds his glasses and puts them back on, suddenly back in business mode. “And I trust you’ll be discreet, moreso than usual, about this, right?”

Picking up his jeans, the blond nods, he hasn’t yet recovered, still dazed and meek. “Ja… I t’ink I needs a bat’… too.” He can start to feel a dull burning all through his body, abused muscles and tender places. “An’ den sleeps.”

“Oh yes, you should get plenty of sleep before the next time I see you, you’re going to need it.”

Looking up, Skwisgaar makes a worried sound. He’s afraid to ask, as if he doesn’t know what Charles means by that. He’s going to need a new belt too, he thinks, noticing as he puts it on where several of the studs came off during their play.

“And I’ll have a few things sent to your room the night before. You will wear them for our trip. I’ll take care of everything else.” Pausing, Charles sees the question on the blond’s face, “Yes, I’m planning to take you somewhere special and very private.”

Not sure he likes the sound of that, “Wheres?”

“As I said, don’t worry about it. It’s not something you need to know. Just trust me, you’ll enjoy yourself.”

The way Charles phrases it, Skwisgaar is certain he will.

~fin~ 


End file.
